


Pressure Turns Coal to Diamonds (or Dust)

by TooTiredToTry



Category: Marvel
Genre: Character Study, Clint Barton Needs a Hug, Depression, Gen, Hurt Clint Barton, Marvel - Freeform, Natasha Romanov Is a Good Bro, Panic Attacks, Tony Stark Is a Good Bro
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2019-08-08
Packaged: 2020-06-02 07:12:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19436497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TooTiredToTry/pseuds/TooTiredToTry
Summary: “Get over yourself, Barton.”





	1. Chapter One

Katie Bishop should be here. She’d love the tower, she’d love the shooting range, and wifi, and the never ending food supply, and she’d fuckin’ go crazy at Tony. Those two could probably go at each other for hours, and burn down the building in the process. She’d hate the lack of female super heroes here. She’d say somethin’ about the patriarchy and how society needs more women warriors. She really should be here.

“Ah, you’re boring-drinking,” a voice behind Clint remarks.

Clint chuckles and throws back the remnants of the bottle in response. A sigh echoes around his head before he’s greeted with Natasha Romanoff. Clint groans and pops open another bottle, only to have it snatched away.

“Aw, beer, no.”

“What’s been up with you? You’ve been all mopey since you got to the tower.”

Clint just inhales and lunges away from the redhead in his seat. The round, wooden table is deserted, save for the two heroes at 2:53 AM. His chair creaks with the movement, and it seems weirdly muted. Clint is too exhausted to stop a burp rumbling out of his mouth and it makes Nat grimace.

“Nunya,” he decides on. 

The less he has to talk about it, the less drunk he has to get, the less hungover he’ll be the next day. Life really is just a series of cause and effect, huh.

“‘Nunya’, he says,” Natasha grumbles, “you get to have this little pity party for about two more seconds before I kick your ass.”

Clint snorts and his head falls to the back of the chair with a loose smile on his face.

“Natty Batty, you ‘on’t gotta threat’n me, I though’ we were friends?”

“Friends are distractions, and you know that. Now, your two seconds are over: spill it.”

Clint groans. Emotions are too much right now, so he resolves to following the waves and curls of her hair. She started letting it grow a couple of months ago and it’s made some real progress. What used to be at her earlobes is now brushing her shoulders. The red always reminds him of the Gatorade drink - what was the flavor name? Cherry? - and when he’s seriously fucked, he feels like just drinking her hair.  _ Is that normal? Probably not,  _ he speculates. 

His eyes travel from her hair to the wallpaper behind her. Tony thought it’d be fucking hilarious to have each decoration in the dining room be a different Avenger, so the wall in the background had tiny little Thor heads in checkered patterns. The left wall is Cap, the right is Hulk, the other  _ other  _ wall is Nat, the chair cushions are Clint, and the centerpiece of the room is the table mat with a full body picture of Iron Man;  _ he’s so humbling. _ The whole room is a total nightmare to look at, and Pepper has attempted to burn it on multiple occasions. Great times.

“Clint!”

His eyes uncross and focus on an angry Natasha.

“Aw, Natty, don’t be mad-y,” Clint pouts.

“Tell me how to feel again and see what happens,” she snarks with a raised brow. 

The blonde giggles and leans forward with a hand cupped around his mouth, “everyone else is gone Natty, why don’t you just leave too?”

Her eyebrows knead together and she cocks her head.

“You’ve had too much.”

“Ha, I’ve’nt had enough, hones’ly,” Clint slurs.

Romanoff gives a small smile and covers his large hand with her two dainty ones. “ _ Dainty”, right. I guess Hulk is “dainty” too, then. _

“Let’s go to bed, big guy.”

Clint’s tongue falls out of mouth as he grins and winks. Natasha rolls her eyes into her 

skull and stands with his hand. She narrows her focus and Clint’s smile falls off his face. 

“You don’t like sex jokes?”

She huffs and takes his weight when he stands.

“I do, just not with you. You’re such a mess.”

Clint sobers at that and takes his arm from off of her shoulders. He feels more than sees her pair of eyes that follow him to the elevator with a flare of confusion. He ignores it, and walks into the empty lift. When the doors close, an abrupt hotness gathers behind his eyes and his breath is stolen from him, and his vision blurs, and his nose is all runny, and he still can’t fucking breathe and he’s shaking everywhere and his body is so cold and sore and now he’s on the floor of the dumbass elevator and his lips are pressed too tightly together and every fiber of his being just wants to stop, stop, stop, stop.

_ (“You were just gonna leave me for LA?” _

__ _ “Oh, so now it’s _ my  _ fault that you’re a sad sack old man who needs some kid to live like a human being,” _

__ _ Katie screamed. Her hands were balled up and her eyes were wild. Her long, black hair was smooth and in line, contrasting so starkly to her tense body that leaned towards Clint. This was the third fight in a month; the first one was over what to do with the tenants of the building and if the russian guys were still a threat. The second argument was about how Clint had left for the Avengers for five days without telling her. _

__ _ “You are such a  _ mess  _ of a human being! People die, Clint Fucking Barton! People die and it’s your fault when you want your motherfucking tenants fighting your damn battles! So thank you so fucking much, Hawkeye! Grills is dead! And now you’re all depressed and feeling sorry for yourself like you didn’t expect this to happen!” _

__ _ He couldn’t say anything to that. She was right, but even if she weren’t, his tongue was suddenly too big for his mouth. All he could feel was this bottomless pit in his chest and this unbearable tension in his eyes. Don’t cry don’t cry don't cry don't- _

__ _ “I know you can hear me, fucker. Answer!” _

__ _ don't don't don't don't don't don't- _

__ _ Kate slammed her hand down to the island counter, causing a glass to fall and break. Lucky’s head popped up with a little bark. The walls blurred and all he could see was Katie’s thundering face. She seemed so outraged, and why? All because of Clint. She never should’ve chosen him as a role model, he’s so worthless. He couldn’t stop a tear from dripping down to his lap as he looked down and away from the girl. He heard a huff, then thundering feet, and a door slam. He was alone. More importantly: she was gone.) _

__ His eyes opened - when were they closed? - and he sees his floor. The doors had probably opened long ago, and purple shag carpet lead the way to Clint’s room. His knees were drawn to his chest and his knuckles were white where they clutched each elbow. With a shuddering breath, he wipes his face and stands. Several joints pop like firecrackers up his spine with every movement. How long had he been on the floor of that lift? It doesn’t matter;  _ nothing _ matters. The trek to his room was long, with a loudass TV playing Dog Cops from earlier. Beer bottles and cans filled every flat surface in the flat.

_ (“That’s a really dumb show,” Katie snarked as she sat next to him.  _

_Clint barked a laugh and held his arm out for her to sit under. Snuggled is the only real word that could be used to describe that action, but she’d kill him if she found out he referred to it that way._ _So, “sat” it was._

_ Her hair was in a loose braid that swiveled into a bun. Little strands fell out in front of her tiny ears and by the back of her neck. Her purple slippers matched his, and Clint smiled at that. They both bought a pair late one night after some really shitty mission, and they coordinated when they’d wear them. _

_ Katie made grabby hands at his beer and pouted. _

_ “I want some!” _

_ “You’re underage. Avengers don’t tolerate illegal behavior.” _

_ Kate flicked her eyes up at him, and he sighed as he passed the bottle over. Before she finished her sip, she spat out the liquid. _

_ “Ugh! This tastess like shit!” _

_ “It’s because you’re illegal.”) _

__ Clint leans on the doorframe and Lucky’s two ears pop up from the bed. Clint smiles and face plants on the bed, careful to avoid the dog. 

The light is too bright and Lucky took up the entire bed, but Clint closes his eyes and breathes deeply. His soft, plush comforter smells like home. He eventually decides it’s time for sleep - the wondrous place that isn’t living or dying - so he doesn’t have to make any commitments or decisions.

Clint falls asleep to the idea of lying in bed and just dreaming forever.

@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@

As expected, after waking up, the day just goes downhill. 

The explosion site of purple that is his room gives him a headache, but that isn’t new. In fact, it’s kind of exhilarating. The designer just looked from Clint to the color scheme, frowned, shrugged, and strode out. It was Clint’s greatest achievement to this date. 

But Lucky gets all whiny when Clint is awake longer than seven milliseconds and hasn’t fed him, so little whimpers and licks to his face wakes him up completely. 

“Can you wait like, four fucking minutes.” Clint growls, but Lucky wags his tail even faster and it’s a lost battle.

Lucky follows him out to a little kitchenette in his flat level and jumps on his chest. Clint grumbles and lightly sets the dog’s feet on the floor then rummages through the cabinets. The top left one has a stolen pint of Asgardian liquor in a flask with marijuana leaves all over it, the section next to that has a million different roles of washi-tape with unnecessary designs all over it for... decoration, then the final cupboard has a gallon tank overflowing with dog food. Clint eyes the flask, but concludes that it’s too early, and hastily grabs the dog chow. 

Lucky barks, which makes Clint shush him on reflex, even though human mannerisms are beyond the dog’s understandi-  _ shut up, let me feed my dog in peace, damn. _

Lucky crunches and chews way too fucking loudly and Clint sits way too fucking aggressively on his couch with a cosmic brownie. It tastes like tripping on acid, and that’s the only reason he eats them. It’s really just too crazy of an experience to pass up on. The pair eat their breakfasts in companionable quiet, and it’s much too domestic for eleven AM, so it’s only natural when JARVIS interrupts.

“Mr Barton, Sir wants to know if you need any new arrow models.”

“Tell him that I desperately need butt plug arrows right fucking now.”

JARVIS is quiet until he returns with, “Sir says, and this is a quote,” JARVIS does not get paid enough for this. That poor AI, “‘only if I get to use them too’.”

Clint huffs in annoyance, “Tell him that  _ if  _ he uses them, he has to use them on me.”

JARVIS regretfully complies and in the most tired, depressed voice Clint has ever heard, asks, “‘Can - hear me out - can Pepper join’?”

“Hell yeah.”

“Miss Potts would like to convey that you and Sir are ‘disgusting assholes - no, the pun is  _ not _ intended - that are this fucking close to being chopped into eight billion different pieces and served as pig slop’.”

“Fair,” Clint finishes.

_ (“You’re such an asshole, you know that?” _

_ “Please leave, I really can’t do this right now.” _

_ Katie huffed and cocked her hip in his door frame. It was maybe seven in the morning, and poor, hungover Clinton had been awoken by incessant lights flashing all over his apartment. Someone was at the door, pounding relentlessly when he put his hearing aids in. Of course, the dog started barking which always made everything so much worse. _

_ “Those kids fucking needed us, and we… we just abandoned them! Like, like, like animals!” _

_ “Katie-” _

_ “That isn’t my name.” _

_ “Kate, you did see them almost  _ kill  _ me, right? I didn’t imagine that, did I?” _

_ “They didn’t  _ know _ any better! They weren’t raised in any kind of society like we were! They don’t know the rules!” _

_ “The rules to  _ what, _ exactly? Isn’t there some moral dissonance that occurs when murder is committed?” _

_ “You, of all fuckin’ people, have no God fucking room to talk about the rights and wrongs of life.” _

_ “And you’re any better?” _

_ Katie visibly snapped her mouth shut and Clint pinched the bridge of his nose. _

_ “KB, it’s seriously too early, and I’m stupidly out of it right now. Can we argue at literally any other time than right now?” _

_ “Sure, just let me know when the booze from three hours ago wears off, then we can talk about the livelihood of three homeless, family-less, kids. Sure, whenever’s convenient for you, jackass.” _

_ His own door was slammed in his face, disorienting him for a solid minute. He stumbled backwards until his knees hit his couch, and he crashed down, back asleep before his head hit the cushions.) _

Any bubbly laughter that may have gathered communicating with Tony has all dried into the cracks of his soul when he comes back into focus. His chest feels too heavy to breathe in. The-the air won’t come in or get out -  _ is someone doing this to me -  _ he can’t move, his limbs are stuck.  _ Come on, air, I could really use you right about now _ , he silently begs, but his lungs are too full and too empty simultaneously. All he can do is hopelessly move his eyes around the room and wait. A full body tremor wracks his body after a millennia and shakes him out of it. He jumps from the couch, panting heavily.

“What the-what the fuck wazzat?”

His chest heaves as he gulps in air through his mouth. He holds onto all the air too long and he collapses on the floor, exhaling a fucking tornado. He curls into himself like a stupid baby on his floor as he makes aborted sounds that are much too similar to sobs. Clint barely notices Lucky nosing at his hair and he closes his eyes to concentrate on breathing.

He finally calms down after three failed attempts and he reaches a hand out to Lucky, who playfully sticks his head under. 

“I’m dying, it’s official,” he mumbles to the dog.

In return, Lucky licks a stripe up the side of his face, and Clint stands swiftly to escape. He laughs as Lucky chases him around the living room, with his tongue hanging out of his mouth and bouncing steps. When Clint jumps onto the TV stand with a thud, Lucky howls and paws at the human’s leg. 

“Ha! Fucker! I have defeated thee!”

He points down to the dog and grins. 

“What the fuck is going on in here,” a voice startles Clint off his stand to the floor from the elevator.

Lucky puts two paws on top of him, and laps at his entire head.

“Hello,” the outsider insists.

“Ugh- hi,” he grunts as he stands.

He shuffles to the lift and waves at JARVIS to open it. The flash of blood red is all Clint gets before she slaps his face and punches his gut. He groans and hunches against the wall that mirrors the elevator.

“Fuck you, Tasha,” he grits out.

He gets no response as she pulls a glock out and sweeps his floor level. She disappears to the kitchen and twirls sharply around the corner back to him with thundering steps.

“No, fuck  _ you _ , Clintwad, okay? You’re drunk off your ass last night and you don’t check in, and then I hear yelling and thumping and the water in my hand is rippling with impact. You’ve been all weird for a  _ week _ now, and it’s  _ boring _ and _ annoying  _ to look at,” she stands nose to nose with him and her green eyes look so lost when she whispers, “what’s wrong?”

Clint sighs and looks away, and she socks his shoulder.

“Ow.”

“Get over yourself, Barton,” another punch, “your actions affect people.”

She draws back for another but he catches it.

“This hurts, please stop,” he mumbles.

She switches between his eyes, back and forth for a moment, then pushes away. They stand in agitated silence for an excessive amount of time before Clint exhales and scratches his head.

“Nat, I think you should go,” he admits softly.

She snaps her head to look at him and he hysterically thinks,  _ oops.  _ She grabs his wrist and drags him to the lift where the doors shut behind them. She keeps her grip on him deadly the entire ride, then pristine white walls line the way out of the elevator. Paintings hang on the wall, and Clint even recognizes a couple. The frames are plainly black, but it somehow advances every artwork.  _ I wonder if Pepper had anything to do with this,  _ he muses. They come to an opening in the penthouse, and a giant-ass flatscreen hangs on the wall. There’s a pastel blue circle rug that looks like it’s made of cloud, then a glass coffee table with wooden legs on top of it. A matching blue bungee chair sits in the corner with a black floor lamp next to it with a shit ton of books stacked on. A white double cushion couch rests in front of the TV and table that has a black and red plaid throw blanket resting over the arm.  _ Is this what it’s like to live inside of Tumblr,  _ Clint admires. The next room over is the same color scheme, but a bedroom. In the middle, is a giant! Haha, no, it’s just Captain America. Natasha shoves him into Steve with a “fix him”. 

“Nice to see you too, Romanoff,” Steve deadpans.

Nat gestures accusingly at Clint and repeats, “Fix him! He’s broken and you need to fix it.”

_ “It”,  _ he thinks incredulously.

Rogers gives him a once over and shrugs.

“He looks fine, better than fine; amazing. Clint, you wanna roll around a few times?”

“Only if I can top,” Clint nods and Steve grimaces.

“Pass.”

“The fuck is that s’pposed to mean?”

“You’re like,  _ the _ most rockin’ twink I’ve ever met.”

“Pull your dick out right now! We’ll see who’s bigger and whoever wins gets to top!”

“Dude, I’m so fuckin’ big that if I whip out right now, we’ll all suffocate. There won’t be any room left for air.”

“Big ass bet, Rogers.”

“Okay, but don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Steve shrugs as he reaches down. 

Before anything can happen, sadly, his hands are slapped away and he’s kicked back onto his bed.

“Fix. him,” Natasha growls.

But Steve just puts on a shit eating grin and cocks - ha - his head.

“You wanna  _ join, _ Romanoff?”

Nat’s shoulder rise just the tiniest bit as she narrows her eyes. She purses her lips together and storms out.

“What’s up with her,” Steve asks.

“Maybe she’s on her peri-”

A shoe hits the back of his head and his knee buckles when a swift kick pushes it in. Natasha stomps back in and Clint sees Steve look up at her with concern. She shoves a thermometer and aspirin pills into his hands then points indignantly at Clint. Steve nods minutely and she huffs out of the room. After she slams the door, Rogers leaves the tools behind as he gets off the bed and sits criss crossed in front of the other blonde on the cold wooden floor. 

“Nothing’s wrong,” Clint immediately states.

Steve makes hums softly in agreement as he silently asks him to remove his shirt. When the fabric is gone, Rogers gingerly sets a hand on Clint’s chest.

“Breathe deeply,” he commands. Clint doesn’t argue.

Rest assured, Steve starts poking lightly at every rib, then squeezes his bicep, and finally checks his wrist for a pulse.

“Nothing’s wrong,” Steve echoes, “do you have a headache, or abdominal pain, or-”

“No, nothing. She’s just being paranoid,” he cuts off.

_ (She softly wrapped his shoulder in serenity. She sings a pop song under her breath and once in a while a puff of air would make Clint involuntarily shiver. _

_ “Stop doing that, you’re gonna mess it up,” she directed. _

_ “It really isn’t intentional,” he reiterated for the sixth time. _

_ “That doesn’t mean it isn’t messing with my wrapping,” she replies. _

_ He rolls his eyes and they resume the peaceful quiet until she pats his chest and his shirt sinks back over his waistline five minutes later. _

_ “Thaaaaank you, Katiiiiiiiie,” he groans and pouts. _

_ She smiles and one dimple carves into her face. Her eyes shut a little with the motion and she stands. He takes the hand she offers him and they both shift to the fridge. _

_ “We got,” she rummages through the vacant storage, “literal bread crumbs and mayo.” _

_ “Just like Momma used to make,” Clint says in mock euphoria. _

_ She giggles with a hand covering her mouth as she shuts the refrigerator door. _

_ “Pizza?” _

_ “Pizza.”)  _

He swallows and his breath studders. Dumbass Steve notices and snaps his head up. Clint licks his lips nervously as he eyelids pick up blinking pace.  _ Don’t cry don’t cry don’t cry _

_ (don't don't don't don't don't don't-) _

_ Don’t cry don’t cry don’t no, stop- _

“Hey, hey, hey, it’s Steve,” Clint startles at the hand in his face, “yeah, hi, welcome back.”

“Don’t tell Nat,” he blurts and Steve knits his brows.

“I… I wasn’t going to…”

“Good.”

Clint stands and books it out and into the lift. Natasha comes running at him with a snarl on her face, and Clint can’t do that this instance.

“JARVIS, I wanna go home, now, now, now, please.”

“Yes, Sir,” the AI complies.

“No one is allowed up there, okay, J?”

“Absolutely,” JARVIS agrees delicately. 

The doors close gently before Nat can get in, and Clint breathes in relief. 

_ I’m so fucked. _

  
  
  
  


  


  
  
  
  
  
  
  


__

  
  



	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If he stopped existing right now, time would move on. That’s all it does: move. People would mourn him, but they’d disappear too, and then his existence would never have been really real.

There’s cowardice, and then there’s self preservation. That’s what this is.

Three hours had passed since his episode in Steve’s room, and Natasha has attempted to get in four different times, tried breaking in three different ways, and had Tony try to override his order to block everyone out. 

After thirty minutes of radio silence, Clint sinks to his bedroom floor with a huff of breath and Lucky sat at his side. 

No doubt that the redhead is doing something sketchy, but that’s a problem for Later Barton. All his windows are blacked out, casting darkness over his bedroom. His aids lay on his nightstand, causing sense deprivation. His thoughts crash inside his skull in waves of emotions as he stares blankly at his nightmare of a room. A stuffed purple bunny looked much too demented in the dark for Clint’s preferences, so he casually turns his head the other way, ignoring the churning in his stomach. Dizziness threatens his consciousness with every movement, even though he hasn’t moved from his floor. Lucky whines and sets his head in Clint’s lap, but he barely registers it. 

His door opens gently and Nat shuffles in shyly. Her hands are crossed in front of her hips, and her head is bowed. Clint sighs in resignation as she gracefully squeezes in between him and the corner of the walls. They sit in tense quiet before she inhales.

“That stuffed animal is scary,” she states.

“Yeah, that’s why I’m not looking at it.”

“But if you don’t look at it, it could sneak attack you.”

“I didn’t get training in killer stuffed bunnies, so it doesn’t really matter.”

Natasha shifts uncomfortably in her seat next to him. Silence resumes, the only noises being their staggered breaths. 

“You should talk about it,” she faces him.

When he doesn’t respond, she holds her breath before petting Lucky on the head. His smooth fur hardly ruffles with the movements. 

“Katie… she left.”

Natasha’s head whips to him, but he averts his gaze.

“Why?”

He shrugs with an exhale, and she rolls her eyes in the corner of his view.

“That isn’t a good enough answer for all the weirdness you’ve been up to.”

Clint lulls his head to his friend’s shoulder, his entire world shifting fuzzily, bile starting an uprising inside him. His eyes feel hot for the gazillionth time and a delicate hand rubs up and down his left arm. Lucky doesn’t relocate, making their embrace awkward. A sob wrecks his body before he can bite his lip to stop it. He startles with the noise, again making him disoriented. 

“I’m so sick. I can’t move without…  _ dying _ , it’s so, so, shitty Tasha. I don’t wanna be here anymore, it’s so, so, so bad,” he cries into her shoulder. 

“Clint,” she hushes.

“No, no, no,” he repeats until the one syllable becomes too hard to focus on. He shakes his head back and forth with clenched eyes. He wills himself to disappear; to never exist again. Nothing happens. Nat continues to pet his limb as she mumbles garbage into his ear. He smells his own vomit inside himself as he swallows it down. At some point, he notices he’s full on whimpering, but she hasn’t dislodged him, so he doesn’t think too hard about it.

“I miss her, so fucking much. We-we did everything together!”

Nat shushes him again and he fists her shirt, desperate for something to tether him to reality. He misses black, satin hair falling through his fingers. He misses piercing eyes that tried him when he said wrong things. He misses Katie Bishop.

They sat together for an infinity, with Clint Barton crying his eyes out and Natasha Romanoff comforting him. 

When Clint eventually calms down, they pull apart, and he can see that her eyes are red too.

“Are you high, or are you being sympathetic,” he teases with a wet laugh. She smiles weakly and reaches out to his face. She rests her hand on his cheek, wiping a stray tear away. Her hand was freezing to the touch and porcelain white. He vaguely recalled someone saying that redheads are much more sensitive to the sun than other skin complexions.

“Can we move to your bed? My back hurts,” she asks with a tiny grin. He nods and she stands. Her pale arm extends to him and he grips it strongly as they cross the floor. He’s immediately hit with a longing feeling of drifting to sleep. He’s always thought that sleep was the best part of life. It was such a beautiful compromise; not alive but not dead. And really, isn’t that what it’s all about?

“What time is it,” he murmurs, scratching at his eyes. She softly removes his pawing limbs as she sits cross legged while he lies down.

“It’s only 9:25,” she replies with kneaded brows, “you woke up at like, one, Clint. You can’t possibly be tired yet.”

He picks at his cuticles, suddenly a nail cosmetologist. Her smile somehow brinks a frown as she leans down to kiss his forehead.

“You can turn in early just for tonight. However, we’re both up and at ‘em tomorrow, deal?”

He nods in agreement.

He watches her tread lightly out of his space, leaving no evidence of her even being there. He closes his eyes, only to watch the backs of them. Colored blobs engulf and chase one another, and Clint feels his eyes track the view. 

_ You failed her  _ is the thought that snaps his eyes open again and has him sitting straight up in his bed. He feels like he got shot and his breath catches in his throat. The nauseous feeling returns precedent to him even realizing it left. His stomach turmoils with his mind. He gags on nothing and he clutches his head too tight. Somehow tears break out and he’s rocking back and forth on his comforter. He screams once, but the noise doesn’t seem loud enough to portray his pain. His eyes have toothpicks propping them open as he stares intently at nothing. He gropes around for his phone. When he retrieves it, he taps it on and sees the time. Eighteen minutes past midnight. He lets go of a breath he didn’t know he was holding before he slams his body back on the bed. He unlocks his phone, booting up his contacts list. He presses his only contact under “favorites”. The line rings six times, then he’s sent to voicemail.

_ “Hey! It’s Kate! Or, I guess it isn’t Kate… I’m too busy being awesome to answer right now, so leave it at the beep!” _

His resounding beam hearing her voice surprises even him. He clears his throat, but he can’t think of anything to say, so he hangs up. He promptly recognizes how creepy and terrifying that voicemail is to listen to. He calls back, again receiving her answering machine, and he coughs.

“Hey Katie-uh, Kate, uh… it’s me… um. I’m… I don’t know what’s happening,” he quietly admits. The phone beeps and an automated voice rattles off useless instructions. Clint taps the red button, and he’s left to his own devices once more. Seeing how well sleeping went the first time, he gets up and shuffles through his closet, retrieving his old bow and some loose arrows. He grins weakly, but triumphantly as he heads down to the range.

@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@@

The sun peeks through the plexiglass windows the next morning. Clint remains in stance as he  _ thwips _ an arrow to the bull’s-eye. Although, his grip quakes, and he instead hits inside the five point marking. He huffs in anger before he reloads. He repeats his mantra, ending with breathing out… and misses for the tenth time in a row. Clint growls in frustration, slamming his bow to the floor. Exhaustion tugs at his face perpetually and he yells again. A minute later, the glass door hisses and in comes Tony Stark in light pink sweatpants and a white tank top with a hole for the arc reactor to “breathe”. Clint glares and Tony holds his hands up peacefully.

“I just heard some aggressive moaning, and if an orgy was going on down here, I thought it was rude not to invite me, so I came here to invite myself.”

“Tony, not now.”

“Ah, see, I thought you’d say that. So, I brought a prototype of those butt plug arrows we were talkin’ about yesterday.”

Clint’s eyes widen, “for sure?”

“Ha, no, not really, but that would’ve been hilarious,” Tony chuckles, “so… whatcha dooooooooin’?”

“Shooting targets, but those are kinda blurring together, so you might work better.”

Tony puffs his cheeks out and takes a step back with his hands now held behind his back.

“That’s… inconvenient, admittedly. So, nothing else is… y’know, up?”

“Fuck off, Stark.”

“I’ve yet to figure out how to physically do that.”

“I can show you,” Clint snarls. Tony walks up to him, a concerned expression on his face, and his head tilts to one side. Brown doe eyes blink up at him.

“When was the last time you ate,” he questions soothingly.

“Don’t patronize me,” Clint bites out, but Tony persists.

“Come help me find milk for my cereal,” he whines pathetically, tugging at his wrist. Clint glares a second time as he lets Stark pull him up the floors to the communal space. There, Sam and Nat sit with hands stitched together respectively. The hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He tries to back away, but Tony kindly shoves him forward. Sam gestures to a chair with Clint’s own face on it, but he shakes his head no. He hears Tony puff behind him. He crosses his arms in front of his chest in retaliation. There once was a mandatory lecture on body language at SHIELD when he first started, and they said that crossed arms were much less a move of intimidation, but more so a self comforting reaction. Like a hug, but by yourself and for yourself. He sees Natasha clock the behavior and instantly straightens his stance. She clocks that too.

“Clint, JARVIS says that you’ve had elevated heartbeats infrequently and symptoms of panic attacks for some while now,” Sam announces. Clint eyes the ceiling in betrayal. He can’t even trust a fucking robot butler.

“Can I get some vodka, or weed, or, like, cyanide,” he requests. Nat rolls her eyes, and Clint has a feeling that if he turned around, he’d see Stark doing the same.

“Anxiety is common, even in men,” Sam plows on, “if there’s something that’s upsetting you, you should consider - genuinely consider - talking to a professional about it. You can talk with me, even though I specialize more in PTSD, or you can seek guidance from reliable therapists that keep our shit confidential.

“I know you’d rather eat a rat from the hotdog bodega down the street than relay your emotions and thoughts,” Clint smiles amusedly, “but it really is unhealthy to hold it in. You’ll only find the attacks getting worse. Let me guess: you didn’t sleep last night because of nagging thoughts, huh?”

Clint’s grin slips off his features. Natasha bites her lip and releases it, repeating the motion for a few seconds. Her mouth begins to move, only to be interrupted by Tony.

“I got these kinds of things after the Chitauri, right?”

Clint shrugs carelessly, though his attention was hanging onto every word.

“Well, I was so paranoid, right? And then I freaked out over shit I couldn’t control, so I tried to control it, but then I freaked out over that, then freaked out about freaking out- it was a real nightmare.”

Clint feels himself gawking slightly, but he can’t stop. Tony grins.

“Yeah, I know. It was supposed to be impossible. A man with no emotions was scared as hell.”

Clint swallows and nods microscopically. Tony walks to him and holds his arms out in invitation. Clint finds himself leaning in, but he stills and his face hardens. 

“Fuck off, Stark,” he spits out, “you don’t know shit about me, or anything. You’re a worthless, pathetic piece of ass who walks around, parading shit no one cares about.” 

He knows that it’s all bull, but it feels so good to say to someone besides himself. Tony doesn’t even blink as he sets his arms down to his sides.

“It’ll feel better, Barton,” he assures. Clint glares down his nose at the smaller man, then storms out of the area down to the lobby. A myriad of people in similar suits and hairstyles stop to glance at him. He, no doubt, looks like shit. Avengers shouldn’t look like shit. They should be pristine and… heroic. That isn’t exactly the look he’s rocking right now. He grunts in annoyance and pushes his way out. He walks and walks to nowhere forever. His legs hurt after a while, but he berates his limbs and presses on. Skyscrapers pass to three story buildings to normal two floor houses of civilians. The sun burns his shoulders and scalp directly above him, and it will probably hurt later, but anything is better than what he’s feeling currently. His pounding steps on concrete sidewalks set a punishing rhythm that he counts in fours. Some people double take at Hawkeye in the streets of Bum Fuck Egypt, most don’t. Anything can happen in New York. Maybe Jersey, at this point. He shudders in disgust,  _ fuckin’ Jersey. _

He belatedly acknowledges that he’s wearing his clothes from yesterday. Grey basketball shorts and an orange short sleeved reek of sweat. His obnoxiously vibrant hydro dipped crocs slap against the sidewalk. He remembers when he saw a video of it on his timeline and he immediately needed it in his life. He had texted Tony to meet him in the front yard with a gallon tub of water, where he saw that the stars were out. Hadn’t even noticed the time, but Tony had agreed, so they were nocturnal together. Tony showed with the water, and Clint had pink, turquoise, and green spray paint. They each dipped every pair of shoes they owned, excited over their shitty science experiment. The next day, Bruce had taken one look at their newly decorated footwear on them, buried his face in his hands and screamed. When his session ended after an infinite three minutes, Clint and Tony dapped their fists together with malicious grins. 

Clint feels a pang of guilt at his venomous words at the brunette, but he doesn’t still. He’s too far dedicated to stop.

He knows that he doesn’t know where he’s going, but Clint  _ definitely _ knows he’s running away. That’s like, the second best thing he does, next to, y’know, archery. He’s been running since he was a kid. He’s been running before he even knew what archery was.

The sun sets and the neighborhoods were thinning sparsely. Dogs bark more often than not as he passes driveways, and some kids in their yards blink twice at him, as do their parents, but he’s no threat to them. Once they realize that, they look away and continue living their normal-people-without-stupid-problems lives. He likes to think that he’s capable of living like that, but it’s fantasy. The stars that made up his existence decided they wanted to do this, so that’s what he’s doing. If the fuckin’ universe destined him to be a piece of shit, who is he to try and disagree? He is a tiny, miniscule, inconsequential speck of stardust in a grand, infinite universe. If he stopped existing right now, time would move on. That’s all it does: move. People would mourn him, but they’d disappear too, and then his existence would never have been really real.   
_ Stop being a pretentious asshole, _ a voice that sounds much too similar to Katie grumbles. And, despite everything, Clint smiles. He figured that even though she left, she’d still be here to remind him that he isn’t any more special than anyone else. It was comforting, in a bittersweet way. He misses her vigorously, but that isn’t a new development.

He plucks his phone from his pocket, sees that it’s at 23%, and hysterically panics for a second.  _ Where’s my charger, oh my god, oh my god!  _ He subsequently looks around him and there aren’t any outlets nearby, since he’s in the middle of nowhere at - he checks his phone again - 11:23 at night. He’s been walking forever. He’s also tired and hungry. He heaves his shoulders in surrender as he dials a number. The receiving end picks up promptly.

“You’re late,” Natasha greets sarcastically.

“Is Tony mad?”

“Nah, he knew you didn’t mean it. You ready to come home?”

“Uh, you got food?”

“We feed a supersoldier, an alien, and most unbelievably: you. Of course we have food.”

“Then yeah, I’m ready. Need my location?”

“No, Tony’s been tracking it since you left. New Jersey, really?”

“It’s still a shitshow.”

“Duh.”

“Love you, Nat,” he concludes. He’s learned that she’ll stay silent. She doesn’t think love is real, and maybe it isn’t, but he knows that she’s significant to him, so he says it anyway. Surprisingly, the rejection is acceptable when she rejects everybody. He wonders if they met because they needed each other to be lonely with. He wonders if that’s why he met the rest of the team.

He sits and scrolls through his medias until his phone dies, then watches the sky. One of the dippers is glaringly obvious, and he can never find the other, or even distinguish the difference between the two. It’s nice that he can find one, nevertheless. Clint speculates if he’s made of a constellation when a black Ferrari parks next to him. Tony’s beaming smile pops out the window. Clint grins back and struts to the passenger side and lets himself in. When he’s settled, he shifts to Tony.

“You’ve been tracking me all day?”

Tony dimples as he turns around to back up with an elbow on the console.

“I told her not to tell you that.”

“No, I really appreciate having my own little stalker. The attention is nice for my ego.”

“I told her not to tell you ‘cause I fucking  _ knew _ you’d be a shit about it.”

“You like my shittiness,” Clint reminds.

“It’s very fun to laugh at,” he agrees. 

“I’m really sorry for saying that garbage. I guess I needed someone else to say it to for once. And that isn’t fair,” Clint admits. Tony shrugs before punching Clint’s arm.

“Punch Buggy turbonium.”

“Tur-fucking-what?”

“It’s a type of Punch Buggy.”

“You can’t Punch Buggy with a Punch Buggy that’s the color of Punch Buggy.”

“I can do whatever I want.  _ You, _ however, cannot Punch Buggy a Punch Buggy that is Punch Buggy colored.”

The drive home is filled with awful ACDC ( _ Awfully Cacophonous; Distinctly Crappy _ as dubbed by Steve) rock and Tony throwing gang signs like the top one percent asshat he is. Clint sets his phone on the charging dock as he studiously ignores the other man in favor of the night sky. Trees and buildings blur, but the balls of starlight remain stable.

They get home at 1:15. Natasha is lounging on a white bean bag on the community floor kinda-not-really watching TV. She waves uninterestedly and they each grunt their hellos. Clint does a small handshake goodbye with Stark then trots up to his own floor and room. He flips Lucky off in his entry as he ritually collapses on his bed. Another day has passed. 

  
  
  
  
  
  


  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Esta Chapter dos :p


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Katie…” 
> 
> She didn’t react at all; not even a blink. That surprised him, driving the knife inside his heart a little deeper. He opened his mouth to speak, but she held up a firm hand.
> 
> “Don’t,” she ordered, “I don’t need that.”

It had been a month since Clint moved into the tower, and things were… slowly getting better. 

Most days, he woke up around three in the afternoon, feed his dog, have breakfast while Natasha had lunch, and then it varied from there. Nat would either ask him to train or say that he sleeps too much, then either they’d go spar for a while or he’d say that he’s a growing boy and he needs all the sleep he can get so he can grow big and strong. After that, they’d shake hands and disperse, or she’d threaten him along the lines of “do dead big boys still grow?”

All in all, he was doing great. 

Until SHIELD called in.

He trotted his way into a helicarrier, wiggling his ass when a SHIELD personnel whistled at him, before stopping dead in his tracks. In front of him stood a woman in a purple leather suit, with a black belt tied around her waist and holding several weapons. Her black hair was neatly braided down to her tailbone and waved side to side and she changed standing positions. When she turned to face him, soft features roughened into cool neutrality upon his appearance. She nodded her head sharply and straightened her posture; her shifting had stopped and she was straight as a line. The last time he saw her she was wearing his old hoodie and sweatpants… when did she become so uncomfortable around him?

“Barton,” she greeted icily. 

Her eyebrows arched perfectly, though they were a slightly different shape than before. She had a second ear piercing in both her ears, just little sparkles hinting they were there. She seemed paler and skinnier, and Clint prayed that she was doing okay. He hoped she didn’t go through the same emotions he did; she probably didn’t. She was put together better than he was.

“Katie…” 

She didn’t react at all; not even a blink. That surprised him, driving the knife inside his heart a little deeper. He opened his mouth to speak, but she held up a firm hand.

“Don’t,” she ordered, “I don’t need that.”

_ I don’t need you _ was left unsaid. Clint winced as his breath stuttered. 

Maria Hill stepped in from the control room with a folder in her hands. She glanced from Katie to Clint and rolled her eyes.

“If you two mess this up, I’m within legal boundaries to murder you in a deep dark basement where no one can hear your screams,” she muttered. 

“I know several places like that,” Clint offered with a raised hand, “I can give you some recommendations.”

Katie shuffled next to him and Hill glared. He huffed and held his hands up, “okay, okay, whatever. Can we just do this?”

Hill cleared her throat.

“Threat level two: some newbie had the bright idea to enlarge bats and they’re terrorizing the city. Your job is to rid the bats then arrest the attackers into SHIELD custody.”

“Why can’t literally anyone else do this,” Kate asked flippantly.

Hill glared daggers at her before answering.

“It’s only a level two. You two are the only ones useless enough to execute the mission.”

“That’s not very nice,” Clint admonished, “you should be nicer when you’re asking a favor of someone.”

“Favors are for people who aren’t contracted into doing things for me. You don’t require the luxury of kindness; you do the job or have to be terminated. It’s your pick.”

“Terminated how?”

“Can we just start already? I have places to be,” Bishop interrupted. Maria cleared her throat.

“eTA is thirty minutes. Don’t blow up my ship and don’t fuck anyone on here.”

“Those are my only limitations?”

“No, those are  _ her _ limits. You get to sit on this chair,” she pulls one from behind her, “and don’t move a muscle. You don’t blink, twitch, or  _ breathe _ unless I say so.”

When Clint did nothing, Maria arched one of her brows and he immediately relaxed into the chair. She gave one last death stare before leaving, hips swaying left to right out the door into an unknown hallway. The moment she was gone, Clint stood and stuffed his hands in his pockets. He whistled and looked around the corner before strolling down a different lane. 

“She told you to stay,” a sharp voice stated.

Clint shrugged, not stopping his exploration.

“She tells me to do a lot of things, I can only listen to so many before my head explodes.”

“Your head will explode when she puts seven bullets through it.”

“Katie,” Clint paused and faced her, “why do you even care?”

She switched her weight to one foot.

“Because you’re a hassle. She told you to stay and you need to listen before you get us all killed.”

Brown eyes sharpened and started slicing his neck into bloody lines as he remembered how kind they used to be. They used to smile at him and twinkle with starlight not even two months ago. He doesn’t recognize these eyes, not today.

“It isn’t your problem,” was all he could say. He couldn’t argue with her any longer. He’s already hurt her enough.

“It’s my fucking problem when you take out the turbines and we crash.”

Clint sighed and turned away, taking steps away from the conversation. If Katie wanted to be a prick, she could do that. Heaven knows he deserved it. 

Quick paces echoed around him and a small hand grabbed his shoulder. When he was pulled back, her angry expression dragged him back under the water to where everything was slow and hopeless.

“You’re so fucking full of yourself,” she snarled, “you never fucking stop to think about how your actions affect others. You’re a selfish asshole that’s going to get himself killed, and you’ll bring everyone who touches you down too.”

The venomous words seemed to just spill out her mouth. Clint wondered if she’d been that mad since their last fight. 

He did that to her.

“Then go away and let me fall,” he pleaded. Her fury melted away briefly before melding into outrage.

“No, you do not get to manipulate me like that. You can be suicidal all you fucking want but you will not try to pin it on me. I am not your damn therapist and you are not my patient,” she stepped right in front of his face, “we used to be friends.”

Clint inhaled sharply.

“You said you didn’t want to be.”

Tears welled in her eyes.

“I shouldn’t want to.”

“I don’t know what’s happening; weren’t you mad at me five seconds ago?”

Kate laughed brokenly and wiped her eyes.

“Fuck off, Clint. We can’t do this separately.”

“Which part?”

She studied his face, then bored into his soul.

“Any of them.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is suuuuuuper short but i think that's kinda how it be. refriending someone is weirddddd asf and can go any possible way.  
> \--  
> follow my tumblr if you hate living: shetalkstooloud

**Author's Note:**

> I finished the hawkeye comics a few days ago, & I really appreciate Clint as a character. So I’ve been doing this for the past week. This is really a challenge for me to write more and better. So, have fun.


End file.
